


Honey and Lace

by HeHasChosenTheBees



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, Erotic Poetry, Eventual Sex, Gentle Kissing, Idiots in Love, If you only read one work by me, M/M, Masturbation, Passion, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, Tenderness, The Author Regrets Everything, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeHasChosenTheBees/pseuds/HeHasChosenTheBees
Summary: It's a dance with the music of their hushed, swallows sounds, choreography of bodies molding. Bucky's managed to remove his clothes completely, smiling into Steve's feverish collarbone when the blonde makes a broken whine. "Stevie." He says, a statement, one word to define the way his hands pull at those slender sides, graze over each rib with tenderness in washing waves with each kiss. Bucky is moving at the same time as holding perfectly still. Each moment bleeds to the next, muted thunder and whispers hidden in the folds of the sheets.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72
Collections: My Personal Works





	Honey and Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Ive ended up with this work in my lap at 5 am. No sleep, but thrumming music and my endless stream of support. A simple prompt nearly over a year ago resulted "mini fics" in my groupchats to please my friends, and has become a job to me. I'm pleased to share with you something between smut and poetry.

The air is dim, smoky. The rich, sweet smell of incense perfumes the air, rosy and thick and permiating. Steve had found that the smell often helps him breathe, and it lingers on his pale, smooth skin for hours afterward. Darkness swallows their corner of the world. Bucky's early. He usually doesn't hit the sheets until the sun is peeking shyly over the horizion, but the droughts have lead to less work for dockers. He still comes home with enough chaff to spend, though, and he slips his billfold and key onto the upturned milk crate resting by the door. A tiny, kittenish sound resonates from within the room they share, darkened by shadows in the flickering lamplight. Steve could have turned on the overhead lights, seeing as the power isn't out and they've paid the bill, but he's chosen lamps and candles. Incense. Low light, half open doors and a haze of gold over his eyes when Bucky peeks in the crack of the frame and sees a sight that's a gift from god himself.

The sharp, casting light makes Steve look angelic, wickedly beautiful in shimmering gold. It glazes his skin, slick and heaving with sweat. Velvet blush riots up his body, pearl-necklace pink painted on his cheeks, lips bitten raw, chest rising and falling in breath, tips of his ears and the swooning cradle of his hips where a loose sheet covers his decency. It's inhuman, a mirror surface of glimmer, warm pools of flame on his skin. So inviting, so delicate and beautiful, yet so destructive and powerful under each swath. It cuts sharply across his body, all angles and smoothed lines blurred by smoke and sweet tears and aching arousal so tangible, it trembles in his thighs and glazes the darkened pools of his eyes, thick and melted cobalt wax ringing swimming, wide pools of darkness.

His fingers work lazily, almost tauntingly, pulling away the sharp edge, but nowhere near what Steve needs to touch before he tastes the ringing in his ears, feels the smell of sweat, tastes the look on Bucky's face. "Bucky," he says lowly, nothing but a plead, simple and rushed among his body and the linen, a secret. He's walking a wire line, sharper then the flickering shadows swallowing Bucky's face, keeping him from veiw. His hands, thin wrists and atoned fingers, are slick and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. One graces over his blood-hot, delicate cock, still so fitting for but a boy, not the man Steve claims to be when he isn't embraced in Bucky's arms. The other works, twisting and twitching when he exhales in sensation, working what Bucky assumes is two fingers in and out of his body.

"Bucky," he pleads again, still making no action to relieve himself. It's a sweet, sickly torture; glimsing something too strong to be shaken, but humbling himself to fragile touches. He moans, shamelessly, a quiet and pleased thing. He revels in his inability, in his weakness, in the vunerability of simplicity, and it makes Bucky move like a man possessed. This debauched angel, writhing in their sheets, is made of gold lace and warm oil, and he can no longer deny himself the pleasure. He takes Steve's face in his hands. Nothing has changed but a sharper curve to his spine, eyebrows knit together in confusion, and wrists moving more swiftly on their own accord. "Bucky," he says again, heart pattering in his chest with singular purpose. "Bucky. " it's his mantra, his peace, even as the brunette pushes his jacket off and works his belt, kissing the tender, feminine lines of Steve's hips. He scrapes his jaw across the promanite, birdlike bones, reveling in the shiver Steve responds with.

It's a dance with the music of their hushed, swallows sounds, choreography of bodies molding. Bucky's managed to remove his clothes completely, smiling into Steve's feverish collarbone when the blonde makes a broken whine. "Stevie." He says, a statement, one word to define the way his hands pull at those slender sides, graze over each rib with tenderness in washing waves with each kiss. Bucky is moving at the same time as holding perfectly still. Each moment bleeds to the next, muted thunder and whispers hidden in the folds of the sheets.

Time is flowing like wine, staining lips and filling the space around them, within them, with thick honey. It tastes like eachother when Bucky pushes home, connects their minds and bodies in the rolls of his hips. Steve closes his eyes, head falling into Bucky's shoulder, waiting palms cradling his skull like porcelain. "My angel," he speaks, lips forming the words around the air, belonging and like skin-warmed metal between them. Steve's grip gets tighter, a cry caught in his throat. The lines of their bodies blurr. Sensations pool in Bucky's fingertips and drip into Steve's hips, the curve of his thigh, in the places where Steve's nails rake across the taller man's back. "I'll get you there," Bucky promises, hands roaming and fingers trembling as each wave drags them under, mouths forming to skin, bodies melding and yielding, walls crumbling at the feet of each new pound of their hearts, lined to one drumbeat.

There is no sound when it's over. The lines cease to exist, glowing and warm and much like an ember, it radiates with heat and the way the spun gold of Steve's hair falls across his face. Those cornflower blues peer up to him, bodies joined still, forever. Lashes brush his shoulder when he pulls Steve ever closer. Tendrils of smoke wrap themselves around the unmoving frame of their bones, stars doting the grey sleet of Bucky's eyes. Silence swallows them into the night, ever sliding the line between wake and sleep with bodies still held together.


End file.
